Thirteen
by writerofberk
Summary: A scheming pirate captain disguised as galley cook and his rebellious cabin boy atone for their crimes. rated for dark(ish?) content and intense abandonment issues.
1. Chapter One: Judgment

**A/N: Heyyy guys! fun fact: this was supposed to be my Halloween fic, way back in October - not that it's scary or anything! it's just set around Halloween and whenever i work on it, it puts me in the mood for horror movies and shit like that - buuuut obviously THAT didn't work out. which is fine. but October came and went, and i actually wound up forgetting about it until just today. i found it on my computer and read it through and i was like heeyy this isn't as bad as i remember... i mean it isn't fantastic but it isn't terrible. so i thought why not just go ahead and post it? and let's all just PRETEND it's October b/c i miss the autumn already :( also things are kind of all over the place in this chapter? but it'll get explained in the next one. anyway i hope you guys like it tho! let me know what you think in the reviews!**

* * *

 _One._

Jim Hawkins awoke, with a startled gasp, to thick darkness and stifling heat; pain sliced, sharp as jagged knives, along the skin of his right arm. For an instant, he gazed blearily round the warm, dim room, seeking the source of his sudden consciousness; then his eyes fell to his sleeve, drawn back slightly to expose his arm – he let out a sharp gasp at the sight. Burning and smoldering its agonizing way into the tender flesh was a single scarlet line, stretched horizontally along the suntanned wrist. It was happening…it was happening now? Happening _already_?

 _Two._

His stomach flipped in warning as the second mark appeared. _Oh, God, no_.

He tumbled from his hammock, rising clumsily before bolting unsteadily from the room; his vision was so blurred, he could barely see, and it seemed to him that his hearing was somehow off – his uncertain, thumping footsteps and harsh, heavy breathing sounded too distant and slow to his own ears.

He barely made it into the bathroom before the vomit rose, filling his throat and choking him before spilling out between his lips and pouring forth into the bowl in a vile, yellowish-white stream.

 _Three._

And to top it off, here came the third mark. He heaved a great sigh, sinking back upon the scrubbed wooden floor and resting his blazing cheek against the blessedly cool countertop; how many of these were left, anyway? He tried to count it up and couldn't; the closest estimate he could reach was something bigger than eight, but smaller than twelve. He released a shaky breath at the thought; just so long as it was below thirteen. _Anything_ was better than thirteen.

 _Four._

The sudden pain jerked him out of his thoughts; fuck, this one must be _deep_. His next breath was little more than a hiss, drawn tentatively through tightly clenched teeth; his hands closed into fists, thin ropy blue veins bulging beneath the skin, short nails digging into his palm. Damn, this one hurt; come to think of it, it hurt more than it should. More than it had in previous years. Even as the new line steadily carved itself a place upon his wrist, he lifted a shaking hand, trembling forefinger skimming lightly over the jagged crimson bar – the mark flared, scorching suddenly white-hot. _Fuck_. He withdrew his hand with another quiet hiss. These strokes, he knew, would remain visible until the following night. The thought sent a burst of shame tearing through his insides and he rose suddenly from the floor, peering cautiously round the open door; the hall stretching before him was dark and narrow and decidedly empty. It would be an unpleasant, yet solitary, walk back to the hammocks, and he let out a relieved, tremulous exhale at the thought, and he settled himself slowly back against the wall. If anyone else had awoken…if anyone else had…if they knew…if they had _seen_ …the very notion made him shudder, and he drew his knees up to his chest in a weak venture to comfort himself. Just imagining it set his insides to shaking; if anyone had heard him…if _Silver_ had heard him…well, the kindly old galley cook wouldn't be so kindly if he knew. If he knew his cabin boy was receiving his marks before _daybreak_ …

He dropped his eyes once more to the marks on his arm, stomach churning; but after a moment, the nausea ceased, and he rose shakily to his feet, extending a trembling hand to pull the thin metal chain dangling beside the bowl. The water and sick swirled and sloshed until they had vanished from sight – and with that, the cabin boy journeyed quietly back to the crew's quarters, climbing gracelessly into his hammock, and letting his eyes fall closed in the razor-thin hope of further sleep. The worst of it was over, he thought drowsily, and nobody had seen. Nobody had seen him at his worst; nobody had seen the Judgment.

* * *

The remainder of the night proceeded exactly as Jim had expected; he received only brief snatches of broken sleep, the heat and pain in his forearm growing slowly to an insistent, scalding sort of throb as the marks increased in number. By sunrise, the Judgment had passed and there were twelve in all; he issued a small, relieved breath at the sight. _Just_ under. Just under thirteen. He had scraped by for another year.

The sound of Silver's booming, cheerful voice broke him from his dark thoughts. "Dozin' already, Jimbo? Maybe our good friends Mop and Bucket will wake ye back up?"

The boy lifted his head, face relaxing into a smile at the sight of the cook – it felt alien upon his lips, and for a moment, he tried to resist it, not least because dead-end cabin boys weren't supposed to start liking stern, gruff old galley cooks, no matter if the cook in question happened to know nearly every constellation in the sky or how to steer a skiff or...

Jim swung himself out of the hammock before those thoughts could continue, letting his sleeves slip down to cover the scarlet lines blazing upon the fever-warmed skin. "Depends. Is another mountain of dishes waiting for me somewhere else?"

The cook gave a short, rumbling chuckle. "Ye get yerself down into the galley in the next ten minutes or that mountain'll be a planet 'fore ye can blink."

"Yeah, okay, I'll be right there." Jim grabbed his boots as he spoke, waiting until Silver had disappeared down the hall before ripping back his sleeve and examining the marks once more; after a moment of thought, he cast the black jacket half-buried in the rough canvas a thoughtful glance. His shirt was loose and slightly too large, and if the sleeves rode up at any point during the day…

Decision made, the boy seized the garment and swung it around his shoulders, drawing a strange sort of comfort from the weight of the dark fabric. He paused only a moment longer to smooth down a few unruly strands of dark hair before fleeing to the galley.

Breakfast was an entirely uneventful meal; the hands were boisterous and talkative, filling the air with empty, irritating chatter; when they had at last cleaned their plates and departed once more from the galley, Jim was not sad to see them go. He cleared their dirty dishes from the tables and set about scrubbing them rather absently, attention fixed mainly on the cook; the two kept up their own, never-ending stream of lighthearted banter. The cabin boy at last completed his task and rose from his makeshift seat – an upturned wooden crate – balancing the gleaming ceramic precariously in his arms; and a sharp, stinging _pain_ raced suddenly along the inside of his wrist. An aggrieved swear left his lips, and he reflexively reached for the offending area – and the dishes he clutched crashed to the floor, tinkling and clattering into a thousand glistening shards.

" _Shit_." He drew back slightly as Silver rushed to his side; the cook's face was utterly impassive as he gazed down at the shattered pieces.

"S-sorry," he offered shakily. "Sorry, I just…I mean…" he stole a slightly nervous glance at the cyborg.

"What happened?" The other demanded roughly.

"I don't know, I…I guess my wrist just…shook, or…or spasmed, or something, I…sorry, I'll just clean this, I…"

"No." The cook put a hand on his arm to forestall him. "No, go get yerself the broom. Ye'll cut yerself to pieces if ye try and pick that up with yer bare hands."

"Right. Okay." Jim turned and headed obediently for the staircase, pushing up his jacket sleeve as he went. What had even happened back there? His skin had just suddenly…it was like a white-hot _wire_ , it was like one of the kitchen knives had just…

A sharp, savage burgundy stroke glared furiously back at him, burning from deep within his skin. He stopped dead where he stood, breath coming in short, strained gasps. No, no, no, he was not seeing this – this was not happening. The Judgment must have made a mistake; the Judgment must have…it was only a fluke…it was only…

Lungs turning rapidly to ice in his chest, Jim grabbed frantically for the front of his jacket, rubbing it violently across his arm; the skin flared and reddened, displeased with the rough touch, but the mark remained.

No, no—there must be some mistake—or he was seeing things—maybe it was all a dream, a horrible, terrifying dream—maybe in a moment he would awaken and he would be back in his hammock, and—no, no, maybe he had cut it? Yes, yes, of course that was it, it was a cut, only a cut, perhaps from the butter knife, perhaps the sharp edge had pierced through his sleeve and…

Fear flickered in his mind as he examined the mark again; panic threatened to overtake him as he considered the improbability of this newest solution; it couldn't have been the knife, he had felt the pain just before he'd dropped the dishes…the pain was why he'd dropped the dishes…and the blade was dull and flimsy, scarcely capable of slicing bread, much less tearing through two layers of fabric in less than a second…and the line was too straight…too even…

Reality struck him; his breaths became little more than hoarse, croaky rasps; his hands took on a violent tremor. This was no dream. And the fresh scarlet streak on his wrist was no accident.

This was real. This was happening. The Judgment was never wrong. The Judgment had come, and the Judgment had gone.

And It had given him thirteen marks.


	2. Chapter Two: Independence

**A/N: ayyyyy guys! everyone still pretending it's only october and i'm NOT a total failure at life? yeah? okay cool good here's the next chapter. actually thought i only had the one chapter, but turned out i had this? lol thank goodness xDD anywayyyy review if you liked it and if you didn't feel free to tell me why. honest feedback's the only way i can improve for you guys.**

* * *

The remainder of the day passed uneventfully, yet nonetheless uneasily, for the anxious cabin boy; Jim found he was unnerved and edgy and no matter how he tried, he couldn't participate in any of his usual easy, back-and-forth repartee he had recently achieved with Silver; and though the cook tried to engage him a few times, he received nothing more than absent, one-word answers; at last, the cyborg sent him from the galley prematurely, thinly-veiled concern in his tone as he encouraged the other to turn in early.

Jim left the room gratefully, and pulled back his sleeve only when he was certain the cook couldn't see a thing; the sight of his arm, utterly overrun with scarlet slits, had him sucking in a slow, shaky breath. So then. He wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight.

And it wasn't as though _that_ part was a problem; no, he was far too used to lying awake, staring blindly up at the ceiling after another dream, always the same one, the same one where he ran on swift and bare feet over dirt and rock, slicing his skin open on the sharp stones, loose pale clothes billowing out around him as the wind caught the excess fabric and ballooned it out like a sail, except the only sail he knew at this point was resistance and if he was a ship, he was pretty sure he was sinking fast…no. No, he was used to that.

Somewhere along the way, exhaustion had become an art form for him. He would sit sleepless and alone tonight, probably in the galley – maybe he'd read to keep himself awake.

And things would be fine. He would wait up by himself, he'd read until midnight, and then it would hit and he'd…he'd…he swallowed around the sudden, hard knot budding in his throat. And then he'd…then it would…then it would happen, and he'd be alone, there wouldn't be anyone, nothing to ground him, no one to place their hands on his shoulders and tell him he was okay, even if it was a lie it'd still be nice to hear it, he'd know he wasn't okay, but if somebody would just _say_ it to him, if he could hear it come from a mouth other than his own, if there was anyone to stay up with him, to calm him if he was afraid, to distract him until it came upon him, to prove to him it wasn't real once it had passed, if there was anyone _there at all_ …

No.

No, he was fine, he was fifteen years old, he wasn't a goddamn child and he didn't need anyone to hold his hand or dry his tears, that was for little kids; he didn't need them, any of them, he was fine, he was on his own and that was alright because he was wrong about his sail it wasn't resistance, it was _independence_ ; he was old enough now to take care of himself – to heal his own hurts, to bandage his own cuts or scrapes, to patch himself back up, to pick himself up off the ground when somebody kicked him down, he was a ship with sails to catch the breeze and engines thrust him forward and a telescope to watch for threats and cannons to defend himself and he didn't need another craft swooping in to help, no, he was alright, he was fine, _he was a fucking ship and his sail was independence._

And tonight was no different from any other; he didn't need anyone, and no one would be there. He was a sinking ship, but he would save himself.

* * *

Hours later, once everyone else aboard the creaking wooden vessel appeared well and truly asleep, Jim stole down to the galley, tread swift and silent, fearful heart crashing forcefully in his ears. So, this was it then – this was _truly_ happening. There was nothing else for it: he was going to sit down at one of the tables, _alone_ , and he was going to begin reading, _alone_ , and he was going to sit up until midnight, _alone_ , and when it hit he was going to face things _alone_ …when the boy tried to swallow, he found his throat to be inexplicably dry, and he struggled to push the unsettling thought from his mind.

The galley was cool and completely dark when he reached it; the cabin boy fumbled uncertainly about in the black for a moment or two before he laid hands on the lantern and drew it to him to light it; when the wick sparked to life and threw out a warm, reddish glow, the room felt almost…pleasant. Jim seated himself at the nearest table, pulling out a battered paperback book and lifting the tattered front cover gingerly. Compact ebony print stared back at him, detached and neutral; after a few moments, they jumped and romped about upon the pages, dancing and swimming about before him; the cabin boy released a regretful sigh and rubbed tiredly at his aching eyes. He just wanted to _read_ – to forget _everything_ , he wanted to forget the hour, the day, the marks on his arm, to ease or calm the tension wound around his heart and seeping down into his bones, tightening him up inside until his grip on his book became white-knuckled. He did not want to be afraid or anxious of what awaited him when the clock struck midnight and he ran out of words. He wanted only to _forget_.

He drew the book resolutely closer, his lips moving soundlessly to form the words he knew by heart; yet however he tried, his thoughts twisted and turned, hissing and coiling like trapped, unhappy snakes – what was awaiting him? His uncertain gaze fell to the crimson lines burning bright upon his arm, fiercer and hotter than the fire in the lantern.

Everyone knew what happened if the Judgment came and found you wanting; but no one ever really appeared to know what they were to experience until they had. What was it going to be for him? What was he afraid of? What left him chilled to the bone or frozen where he stood? What terrors, real or imagined, kept him up at night? What unspoken horror made his heartbeat double? What could be frightening enough to give him pause, to be deemed his darkest fear?

Jim couldn't know for certain how long he remained this way – hands clasped under his chin, dog-eared book lying forgotten on the table as he gazed, thoughtfully yet unseeingly, at the far wall, question pounding insistently within his sore and aching head: _what am I afraid of, what am I afraid of?_ Yet it seemed that not much more than a moment or two ought to have passed when the sudden sound of slow footsteps pulled him roughly back to reality; the noise sent the boy leaping anxiously up from the table, casting the staircase before himself a horrified, disbelieving glance. Someone was coming…someone was coming now? Who the hell would want to go for a stroll round the galley at _this_ time of night? It must be nearing midnight by now, and—midnight. Midnight. Oh, god, what was he going to tell them? What could he tell them? He hadn't planned for a thing like this; it hadn't even occurred to him, he hadn't even thought of it…he hadn't thought this far ahead and he should have, God, he should have, what could he even tell them, how could he explain why the cabin boy found it necessary to wander the ship all hours of the night…

" _Jimbo?"_ The voice that jerked him from his thoughts as the new arrival reached the end of the staircase was low and bewildered and above all, _familiar_ ; when Jim tore his gaze from his own shaking hands and met the mismatched eyes of the dumbfounded galley cook, he found his lips failed him. The only sound he felt he possessed the power to utter was, _"Silver?"_

"W-what are ye…what are ye doin' down here, lad?" The cyborg stepped a bit farther into the galley, dark eyes darting swiftly round the dimly lit room. "Shouldn't ye be…be s-sleepin'?"

"No, I…I couldn't…" Jim's head spun; his throat betrayed him, voice emerging hoarse and weak. "Sleep, I mean. Couldn't sleep. I c-couldn't sleep." He stammered a bit, looking to the floor for sudden, terrible fear that Silver might look at him and see the truth written clear in his eyes.

"Ye should," Silver appeared to be looking anywhere but at him. "It's gettin' on midnight, it is."

"Midnight?" The boy's stomach gave a great, unnerving jolt. _Already?_ And with Silver so near…?

"Ten to, last I saw. And…and ye'll be wakin' early tomorrow, won't ye, so why don't ye just go 'long and get yerself a bit o' s-shut-eye…"

"Y-yeah. Sure. Of course. I'll do that then." _Ten minutes._ Something inside him trembled at the thought. _Ten minutes._ Ten minutes until the Judgment came, and his darkest terror played out before his very eyes. Ten minutes until dreams and reality became one for an immeasurable number of hours. The thought made him feel, somehow, both hot and cold at the same time. _What was he going to see?_

"Jimbo?" It was gentle, but it scared him.

"I'm _going_ ," he blurted, and then he shook himself, trembling hands squeezing into reflexive fists. Ten minutes, that was all; ten minutes to get out of the galley, ten minutes to get away from Silver, ten minutes to find somewhere, maybe the storage, maybe the bathroom, ten minutes to find a place to hide before he lost himself completely. Ten minutes to get himself together; ten minutes to slow his rapid, shaky breath; ten minutes, and maybe less, until reality itself left him.

Jim ducked his head, eyes falling to the galley floor as he slipped silently past the cook – ten minutes, ten minutes to get himself away from here, ten minutes to get himself together, ten minutes until he was _alone_ …

"Lad?"

"H-huh?" Jim whirled round, sudden terror taking hold, heart pumping fit to burst within his chest – oh, god, he knew, Silver _knew_ , and those dark eyes raked over him, those dark eyes judged him, the owner of those dark eyes was going to—

"Your book." The cyborg drew the ragged paperback in question gingerly up from the table – he held it so carefully, it was as though he worried his very touch might turn it to dust.

" _Oh."_ The cabin boy colored, cursing himself; the rigid knot in his chest loosened slightly at these words – Silver hadn't noticed, of course he hadn't noticed, and if he himself wasn't being so damn jumpy, nobody _would_ notice. "R-right. Thanks." He stepped forward slightly – _just breathe, just breathe, just keep breathing, just stop panicking over every goddamn thing_ – and reached out a hand for the book. _Just breathe._ His fingers closed around the tattered spine. _Don't panic_. He tugged it slowly away from the iron fingers. _Just fucking breathe._ He held the book in his hands now. _Don't panic._ He should walk away now. _Just breathe._ He didn't know why he was still standing there. _Just fucking—_

 _Ding. Ding. Ding._

The book left his hands, falling with a crash to the galley floor. The bell. The ship's bell. The ship's bell was ringing. The ship's bell only rang every hour. The ship's bell only rang to note the time. The ship's bell…the ship's…Jim's stomach tightened in sudden understanding. _Oh, god._ He wrenched his eyes from the fallen title, glancing up at the cook, a million excuses ready on his lips – but when their gazes locked, dark darting green meeting pale, anxious blue, Jim _understood_ , and his breath caught suddenly in his throat as comprehension crashed in on him, and he _knew_ – just knew, with such certainty he could half-believe he had seen it with his own eyes – he knew if he drew back the coat's thick, dark sleeves, he would see thirteen straight scarlet marks upon the cook's flesh arm, blazing as brightly as his own.

 _Silver had them, too._

 _Silver_ had the marks, too – _Silver_ , cheerful, honest Silver with his bright smiles and clever comebacks, Silver with all his wild, captivating stories, Silver with his jokes, Silver, bold and sunny and confident Silver was _just as scared as he was_.

 _Ding. Ding. Ding._

The clear, piercing tolls seemed to draw both the cook and his cabin boy from their dreams; the former was stationary less than a heartbeat before gesturing to the stairs. "Go! Go 'way, get out o' here—

"No, Silver, _wait_ —

"You gotta go, you gotta leave now—

"You don't _understand_ —

"GO!"

 _Ding. Ding. Ding._

The boy remained a moment, frozen in his own indecision; and in the end, he went. Heart seizing, and in the same instant, swelling with affection for the old cyborg, Jim turned and he went, boots pounding on the steps amid the bright, shrill rings from the bell, because he didn't need Silver and Silver didn't need him and it was so much easier that way.

And then the bells fell silent.

Jim felt his stomach drop. He turned his head instinctively to look to Silver and found he couldn't; he couldn't see _anything_ anymore. The galley was starting to spin and blur, the world around him growing hazy and unreal. His legs gave a sudden, powerful tremble and he fell to the ground in a violent swoon, head cracking painfully on the steps as he went.

The edges of his vision darkened; he struggled to cry out but he couldn't even tell if his lips actually moved. The room tilted dangerously before his sight abandoned him completely; the blackness moved in and swallowed him whole.


End file.
